


Lines

by merr



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Depression, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merr/pseuds/merr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without Daniel, Jack has no reason to stand behind his line in the sand anymore. <a href="http://endlessvideo.com/watch?v=d2GCp8vs168">Sound City - "From Can To Can't</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines

Jack was wasted. Pissdrunk, shitfaced, sitting on his recently-enclosed back porch with a handle of whiskey keeping him company. It was raining -- but of course, _Of course it's fucking raining_ , he though bitterly as another peal of thunder cracked at his eardrums. "Where the fuck were you a week ago, huh? Fucking sunshine-in-the-graveyard bullshit!"

He kicked at the leg of his porch futon, snarling as memories filled his head, the alcohol robbing him of any emotional regulation he normally would have mustered -- Daniel holding him, gripping his biceps with hands stronger than expected for a bookworm as his shocked azure eyes stared at the pale wedges of scars gridded on the top of Jack's thighs. "The Russians...?" he questioned quietly, anger darkening his face. Jack had swallowed hard, fingers twitching nervously -- they'd taken the relationship slow, he'd been sure of that. He'd never felt so goddamn attached to anyone in his life, not even Charlie ... and that scared him, shamed him a bit, but the past six months of Daniel sleeping next to him had soothed damages in him he never spoke of to anyone, ever.

He shook his head, curtly, and the brunette's eyebrows knit together deeper until he realized, "Jesus -- Jack, you... did this to yourself?"

Jack went red and he turned his face away, feeling like a child, feeling so much more vulnerable now than he'd ever imagined as he rehearsed this inevitable moment in his head. _What kind of grown man struggles with self harm?_ Daniel placed a hand in the middle of the scars, dozens of them, speaking lowly, careful not to sound condescending, "Jack. There's no judgement with me -- never. You've been through... so much more than any one person should have to. I still love you. I --" He faltered and Jack turned his face just enough to look at him, mouth locked in a grimace. Daniel put both his hands over the scars now, letting them peek between his fingers, "I love you more, somehow, even though I didn't think it was possible. You're human, Jack. You're human and no one should ever have to bear being human alone... or have to hide scars from trying to."

Jack gagged a bit, burping into his hand and tasting whiskey against the back of his tongue. He shook his head, took another swig and hissed, making the shape of an X over his chest, muttering, "Cross my heart and hope to..." He snorted, fumbling with the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, tugging one out and lighting it sloppily, fighting with the device. The click of the flint hitting the wheel slammed him with the memory of the safety clicking off, Daniel's wide blue eyes as the snake-possessed cadet raised a pistol to the archaeologist's head. 

Jack froze, a sharp pain stabbing through his heart, then finished lighting the cigarette. He turned the lighter over and over in his hand, thinking about the goa'uld tugging each of the poor kid's neurons, remembering the pop of his own shoulder socket as he dislocated it, struggling against his bonds, silent with terror. They'd dealt with foothold situations on Earth before, how could an offworld installation be any different? They'd always made it out, made it better, and if he'd just fought a little harder --

Tears came on slow, oozing like acid down his face in familiar lines. He'd seen evil -- he'd done evil, as far as he was concerned, in Black Ops, in the service of his country. He'd been tortured, dished out the same and dealt with his own personal torture for having done it... But the goa'uld seemed to elevate causing pain to an art form.

He took another drag of the cigarette, hearing Daniel scold him in memory, plucking a filter from his mouth: "Nope. You're making it too easy for me to win, old man!" Jack had raised any eyebrow -- he and Daniel knew the dangers of their roles at SGC and, one night, holding one another and coming down slowly, Daniel had started to cry, muffling it at first but losing it when Jack cradled his head, murmuring, "Danny? What's wrong? Too rough?"

Daniel had shaken his head, murmuring something that sounded like 'No such thing...' before taking a breath and gasping out, "I wish -- I wish we could know that we'll die at the exact same moment, old and tired and happy. I know -- I know it can't -- won't --" 

Jack tightened his embrace, pushing a stubbled cheek against the brunette's mussed hair, "Don't dwell, Danny. We don't know we won't. Don't terrify yourself." He knew the younger man struggled with anxiety, knew that his mind would loop out of control if given the opportunity. An idea popped into Jack's head and he grinned, pulling Daniel back just far enough to grin at him, look in his eyes, "Hey. You know what? Let's get competitive -- how about this: let's play a game. Whoever buries the other one wins."

Shocked into silence, Daniel pulled himself up to one elbow, stared at him, "Jack, that's... incredibly morbid!" 

Jack kissed him, lips warm and dry, then shook his head, "No. No, it's not. Well... okay, maybe, but we're not strangers to darkness, are we?" 

Daniel's mouth twisted down into a deeper frown, still looking a bit suspicious, " No... but what...? How could we act like we've tricked ourselves into thinking that's a prize?"

Jack pushed his hands gently over Daniel's face, feeling his cheekbones, his eyebrows, grinning that honest, scarred smile that he only ever reserved for his partner in times of deepest honesty: "We win because we know the other one doesn't have to know what it feels like." Then he pulled Daniel in, closer, kissing him properly this time. By the time he pulled back, Daniel was gasping and Jack grinned, giving the brunette that smarmy, shit-eating grin, "Besides, you don't need to worry about it. I'm obviously going to win."

Dragging Daniel's body back through the gate had burned something to cinders inside Jack. His muscles coiled down tighter and tighter as Sam and Teal'c had grabbed at him, trying to convince the colonel to let go, to let the medical team do their job. Silent, so silent, how could he have ever wished that the younger man would stop rambling on and on? What was left of Daniel pinned the airman to the ground like an anchor; Jack's ears were ringing, his throat frozen shut as he started drowning on dry land.

The next few days were one long strip of film for him, hours clicking by in a snapshot here and there. He'd gone through debriefing like a stone, someone speaking through his throat, clinically describing the events. Then he was clicking, image by image, down the hallways of SGC, Carter offering condolences and camaraderie, Teal'c explaining that Daniel Jackson had died a warrior, a hero and that they would avenge him the day they toppled the Goa'uld.

Jack nodded, kept nodding, his head attached to a spring of spiraling despair until he nodded his way through a psychological check in, check list, check out. Both Fraiser and MacKenzie held doubt in their eyes and postures, but Jack kept repeating that he knew there was nothing he could do, just needed some time, _just don't fucking hold me here, Janet, I can't sit here one more minute, I need time, need out of here..._

Through the process, they kept calling Daniel things like Dr. Jackson, calling the man his team-mate, his squad member, even his friend -- but in Jack's head, all he heard was Danny, his life-mate, his family, his best friend.

Jack was made of steel at the burial, the surreal nature of yet another send off for Daniel not lost on him -- the difference being that there was no doubt this time, no 'gate misdial, no false memories. He was bombarded by the all-too-detailed memory of the pistol, Daniel's mouth moving a mile a minute trying to reach the cadet, the flashing eyes, the wounds in his heart opening up after all the work Daniel'd done to help him come to terms with Charlie, come to terms with everything else that had tried to tear Jack down.

The hot sun slammed against the shoulders of Jack's dress blues with the same intensity of Sam's sobs, muffled in Teal'c's shoulder. The shock and shared misery had finally broken down the wall between the two and Jack wanted badly to be happy for them -- to nod knowingly at Teal'c, to give Sam an 'I-told-you-so' grin, be happy that she finally let someone treat her like a woman, finally found someone to love who wouldn't die hours later. But, as sweat trickled down unseen beneath his uniform, his heart was made of stone. Jealousy hadn't even occurred to him as his tears blurred the hard line of Daniel's cherrywood coffin lowering into the dirt -- all he could think, over and over, was: _Told you I'd win, Danny. I told you, I told you._

Sam had always been too damn observant for her own good and Jack grimaced as her face flashed into his head. He ground the cigarette out on the porch carpet, lighting another one, taking a drag, then a shot, breathing the smoke out once he'd swallowed the whiskey. She'd somehow known, felt, deciphered he and Daniel's closely-guarded relationship -- and decided that the night after the burial was the time to let him know, approaching him with those earnest eyes, "Jack..."

He'd turned to her, his face still carved out of granite behind the first of many cigarettes now to come, voice flat and professional, "Major Carter."

She jerked her head side to side, trying to find words as her eyes filled with tears, "Sir. Sir, Jack, I..." She hugged him then, hard enough to knock the air out of him, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes as he tried to breathe, tried to stay cold and failed. He buried his head in her shoulder, clinging to the woman as his heart collapsed on itself.

Daniel had held him too, stronger than he looked, the first time Jack had cried in front of him. They were supposed to have dinner together, Jack promising he'd make the risotto Daniel swore he could kill for, and by the time the brunette'd gotten to the house through all the construction, he was a bit incredulous that the table was empty, the kitchen dark. Jack, giving up a chance to show off his cooking? Unheard of -- and besides, the archaeologist was starving, having slammed a Coke and some beef jerky at his desk for a late brunch.

"Jaaaack, I'm starving!" He tossed his briefcase and jacket on the kitchen island, listening for any sign of what must have distracted his partner from prepping food. He was more than a bit peeved by the time he found the shower upstairs running and jammed his wrist trying to open the door -- locked. Very unlike Jack, who dearly loved unexpected shower sex.

"Jack, the door's locked, what's going on?"

A moment then another passed with no sarcastic comment about privacy, no quip about good things coming to those who wait. Daniel knocked on the door, voice lowering, "Jack? Talk to me, babe--" Daniel couldn't count how many time the other man had snapped at him for the petname. Daniel couldn't help himself, sometimes, but this time, he was counting on it to irritate Jack into a response.

Jack's voice was gruff, the same voice he used in the field: "Just cleaning up."

Daniel's eyebrows snapped together at the tone of voice, "...Cleaning what up?"

This time Jack's voice cracked into a short bark of... not laughter. Was that a -- Daniel paled, hearing another bitten sob -- hearing that noise out of Jack was more terrifying that a hundred goa'uld warships peaking over the horizon and he didn't think twice before stepping back and slamming the heel of his shoe just next to the locked handle. He squinted through the steam that rolled out of the bathroom as the door crashed open, saw the outline of Jack's body, head bowed into the stream of water, hands braced on the tile. He threw the curtain back and reached to grab the older man, hissing and jerking his hand back as the water scalded him. 

Daniel slapped the handle on the tub spigot, raising his voice, "Jesus, Jack, what are you doing?!"

Jack muttered, so quietly Daniel had to lean in to hear, wincing at the horrible redness rising across his neck and shoulders, "Just cleaning up, Danny. Just cleaning up." 

The brunette grabbed a towel, running it under the sink as he babbled, terrified, "Jack, you're clean, you're clean. Remember? We talked about this, you're clean now, you're forgiven, it's just the PTSD talking, okay?" When the towel was soaked with cool water, Daniel spread it across Jack's neck and shoulders, causing the man to gasp and yelp, which woke him up, set him free enough from the waves of guilt that had driven him so deep down. Jack didn't struggle as Daniel led him out of the shower, sinking to the bathroom floor with him, his gasps against the cold towel turning into choked sobs.

Daniel was shocked at the things Jack was confessing in-between gasps, from Black Ops, from the POW camp, from his childhood... but it was the thorough humbling scope of Jack's guilt and regret that drove him to tears. Daniel held him, locked him into place, murmuring over and over whenever Jack paused, "I forgive you. The world forgives you. You're forgiven."

Jack slammed his head back against the windowsill, once, twice, a third time until he saw stars, the rain still clipping against the fallen leaves, starting to sob and hating himself for it. He whispered tightly, to the dark, to the empty porch, to the only person who mattered: "Damn it, Danny. Damn you. Three years ago, I could've handled this. I could've worked myself to death in peace and not felt a thing. You son of a bitch, you -- you promised it would be better this way, it would be better..."

He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts, smearing snot and tears away unflatteringly with the back of his other hand as he closed a palm around Daniel's multitool. He was trembling like a child, swallowing down bile and snot and shame. Disgust and determination chased each other's tails like wild dogs in his skull as he pulled the pale-blue handled object out, not able to read the inscription in the dark but knowing it -- it was tattooed across his heart in a promise: My Line In The Sand.

He'd gotten it for Daniel a year into their relationship, a month or so after he'd thrown his mind away into the bottom of a whiskey bottle for an evening and sat on the back porch, determined in his creeping insanity to clip each small echo on his thigh back open. The closest tool he'd found had, unfortunately, been Daniel's leatherman.

The brunette had found him, half a dozen wounds in, silent and sweating bullets. After a week in the isolation ward at the SGC and a million reassurances that Jack's masculinity and free will was still firmly in place beneath psychiatric medication, Daniel had taken his hand and not let go. He gripped Jack's hand all the way through orders for a mandated month of leave, all the way out to the truck in the privacy of wee AM hours on base, as they stepped over the threshold of the house, their house, their home. 

He turned to look at Jack when he hesitated at the door, silver-studded jaw clenched, his eyes wild. Daniel tightened his grip, pulled him gently, firmly, inside until they were forehead to forehead, "This is the first day of the rest of your life, Jack. I'm going to fight this with you -- we can do this. We've beaten worse, babe."

Jack had shoved him away grumpily then, shutting the door behind them before turning to grab Daniel back and kiss the living daylights out of him. He didn't let his partner go until they were gasping, just as he knew the brunette liked, and smirked at him as Daniel asked dazedly, "....One of those confirmation-of-life things, huh?" Jack slipped a hand down Daniel's side, tugged at the band of his pants as he claimed the juncture of neck and shoulder with his mouth, teeth, grinning through a mouthful of love as Daniel gasped in the early sunlight warming the living room. 

Jack balanced the multitool on his thigh in the dark, still folded shut, lighting himself another cigarette with jerky hands, and then stared, each swirl of smoke escaping his lips seeming to add impossible mass to the object. The rushing in his ears seemed to ebb and flow with his slamming heartbeat: Cacophony then silence. Screaming then hushed breathing. Mortars blooming then muffled fabric rustling in the dark. Crash of the 'gate stabilizing and then -- then Daniel's breathless voice, a single syllable of recognition, Jack's name a promise in his throat.

The panic attack couldn't get a firm grip on him though, not through the dosage of alcohol and soon, a thick, enveloping silence took up the space left in his brain. He barely heard the noise as he clicked the cool metal open; barely felt the lines of the engravings against the numbing tips of his fingers. _Can't really call it crossing a line when no one's standing on the other side, anyway._


End file.
